


Little Wing

by willwork4dean



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Mates, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Schmoop, Stilinskis mate for life, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willwork4dean/pseuds/willwork4dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles spread his arms wide, his palms empty, his elbows as bony as chicken wings. “It’s all right,” he said. “Take anything you want from me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Wing

**Author's Note:**

> _So I don’t have cable, so I’d never seen Teen Wolf, but so many folks were reccing the stories that I started reading them and was blown away. Then I watched Season One online one weekend and Season Two last weekend and now I’m officially obsessed._
> 
>  
> 
> _And I love Stiles so much it physically **hurts**._
> 
> _There’s absolutely nothing original about this fic, but I hope you like it anyway._
> 
>   _The title is from the song of the same name by Jimi Hendrix._

It happened on the anniversary of the fire. For once, Derek’s pack did as he asked and left him alone, even though he knew it hurt them to leave him unprotected.

He heard the Jeep when it was still a half-mile off, and by the time it pulled up, he’d worked himself into a righteous fury. It felt good, he realized. He needed to take his rage out on someone, and who better than his favorite irritant?

When he heard the door slam, he pounded in one last nail — he and the pack had been rebuilding the house all summer — then stomped out on the front porch still clenching the hammer in his fist.

He knew something was wrong right away, because Stiles wasn’t talking. At all. Instead, he just stood at the foot of the steps looking up at Derek, dressed in jeans and sneakers with a hole in one toe and a Batman T-shirt under an oversized flannel shirt. His eyes were huge and mournful, but determined.

It occurred to Derek that Stiles had his own anniversary, his own unbearable loss to mourn and rage against. 

Something softened in him, and he stepped closer. That’s when he got it. Even without Stiles’ scent announcing his intentions, he could see it in his eyes, what he was offering.

A million objections rose up, flickering through Derek’s mind like an old film strip: His age, Stiles’ age, what Kate had done to him, what he swore he’d never to do anyone else, the fact that Stiles father was the freaking _sheriff_ , the ever-present danger from Alpha Packs and Argents and kanimas and God-only-knew what else and— 

Stiles spread his arms wide, his palms empty, his elbows as bony as chicken wings. “It’s all right,” he said. “Take anything you want from me.”

Derek remembered dropping the hammer, which permanently dented the porch, but for the life of him he can’t remember how they made it to the bedroom.

Even there, he tried to be gentle. It was their first time, and Stiles’ first time, and he deserved to have it perfect and blissful, not all rough and wolf-y and weird.

But Stiles arched underneath him, clutching at Derek’s shoulders, and whispered in his ear. “It’s okay,” he rasped, in a tone that Derek couldn’t decipher. “He won’t notice. Mark me. Make me yours.”

***

Afterward, they lay together, Stiles snuggled against Derek’s side as their heart rates slowly decreased. 

“Talk,” Derek murmured. “We need to talk about this.”

“Mmmm,” Stiles replied.

“Bad idea,” Derek insisted. “Very bad idea.”

“Talk later,” Stiles mumbled. “First I have to tell you something.”

He hesitated, then scooted closer and whispered his true name in Derek’s ear.

Derek stared at him in awe. “Seriously?”

Stiles rested his pointy chin on Derek’s chest, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Of course I won’t tell,” Derek huffed. He ran his hand over Stiles’ close-cropped hair. It was impossibly soft, like a puppy’s fur. “But do I get to use it?”

Stiles smirked at him. “Only in bed.” Then he fell asleep with his head pillowed on Derek’s chest, so relaxed he drooled a little.

When they woke, the sun was setting, bathing the battered old house in golden light. Stiles gave an enormous, luxurious stretch and muttered something about lacrosse practice and homework. He planted a wet, sloppy, affectionate kiss on Derek’s lips, then rose and dressed.

“Don’t come to my house,” he ordered as he briskly tied his shoes. “We’ll have to ease my dad into this whole thing. If he comes home and finds you in my bed, he might throw a blood clot.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He almost felt like he should be clutching the soiled sheets around himself like a de-flowered virgin.

Stiles grinned, all his buoyancy restored. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll call you.” He bounded toward the door.

“Stiles.”

Stiles turned, his hand on the doorframe.

“Wolves mate for life.” It was a last-ditch effort, offering Stiles a way out, even though it would probably kill Derek at this point. But he was willing to make the sacrifice.

Instead, Stiles just winked at him. “So do Stilinskis,” he said. And then he was gone.

***

The pack didn’t even do Derek the basic courtesy of pretending to be surprised. Of course, they could smell Stiles on him, their scents permanently intermingled now, but at least they could have _asked_.

Instead, he got a few grunts, a smirk from Peter, and an “It’s about time” comment from Boyd. Naturally, when Scott arrived, he did his whole “If you hurt him I’ll kill you” shtick. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Derek snarled.

Then Scott wolfed out so then Derek wolfed out and then they beat the crap out of each other and broke a few more pieces of furniture, but that seemed to be how he and Scott rolled.

It was when the others — Lydia and Isaac and Erica — gave Derek the same lecture that he had to storm off and punch a few walls until he calmed down.

People didn’t get it, he realized over the next month. In this relationship, Stiles was Alpha. Somehow, this creature, equal parts innocence and guile, fragility and strength — this boy, this _child_ — held Derek’s heart in the palm of his hands. And if he so chose, he could shatter it into a million pieces with a single word.

It’s what nobody understood about being an Alpha. They thought it was about power and dominance and being in charge and being a badass, when what it was really about was responsibility and protectiveness and love and a terrifying depth of vulnerability. It was about being willing — quite literally in Derek’s case — to be torn limb from limb to protect the people he loved. It mean knowing he would sacrifice his own life for theirs without a single second's hesitation. It meant lying awake worrying night after night, forever doubting his own abilities, forever questioning whether he was strong enough, fast enough, _smart_ enough to keep them safe and happy and whole.

Of all people, he figured Sherriff Stilinski would understand. The man held that level of care and responsibility for an entire county, hundreds of families and thousands of souls. And not just for those he desperately loved, like his only child, but for those he completely despised. Like Derek Hale.

Derek shrank down further in his leather jacket, hoping the sheriff wouldn’t notice him, but knowing the clock was ticking. Loudly, in fact: The scoreboard showed only five minutes left in the lacrosse game.

Because, of course, Derek went to all Stiles’ games now. He sat on the bleachers, part of him glowing with pride, the other part wanting to maim any player who so much as brushed against Number 24. Judging by the expression on the Sherriff’s face, he felt exactly the same way. Derek felt a tug of sympathy for the man, as well as a sense of overwhelming dread.

For Stiles had decided that on this particular night, this being the night of his seventeenth birthday, they would come clean with his father.

“I’m tired of lying to my dad,” he said flatly when Derek hesitated. “He deserves better. We’re telling him everything.”

“Okay,” Derek said, because that’s what he always said to Stiles, which was how he found himself occasionally accompanying his mate to the comic book store. (Seriously. The _comic book store_. “You’re Wolverine,” Stiles had told him, shoving the book against Derek’s chest. “Read it. Just trust me,” he added when Derek objected. “You’re Wolverine.” And, of course, he’d been right.)

On the field, Stiles skillfully snagged the ball, whirled to avoid an opponent, and passed it to Scott. Although he wasn’t yet co-captain with his best friend, Stiles was rapidly improving on the field, his newfound confidence giving him focus. Plus, he was finally growing into his ridiculously large feet and no longer tripped over them quite so often. He was as tall as Derek now and a full 143 pounds, which he bragged about in bed when Derek poked his ribs, complaining how skinny he was.

“Face it, I’m hot,” Stiles declared. “I’m hot, and you want me.”

Derek flipped him over and straddled him. “I always want you.” He wrapped Stiles' leg around his waist then slid his hand lower, teasing his entrance. He knew he’d found just the right spot when Stiles’ eyes darkened to amber and he flung back his head, biting his lip and arching into Derek’s hand, and then— 

The stands erupted in cheers, interrupting Derek’s reverie. Which was probably just as well, given where his thoughts were heading. He could feel his entire pack’s amusement as they sat around him, strategically placed throughout the bleachers.

“Shut up,” he muttered, knowing they could hear him, and focused on the field. He realized Scott had scored a goal off Stiles’ assist. The two friends high-fived each other, then jogged back up the field. Stiles pulled up his helmet long enough to flash Derek that wide, goofy grin, then gave a happy wave.

Derek glowered at him, refusing to wave back. Stiles cheerfully flipped him off, then pulled his helmet back down and resumed his position.

Derek saw Sherriff Stilinski notice his son’s gesture, then turn and peer into the stands, puzzled and a little concerned. Derek sank lower into his jacket and now his pack was definitely laughing at him, and even without looking he could tell they were _smirking_. Even Chris Argent looked amused. He sat next to Allison, his arm comfortably slung around her shoulders as she cheered for Scott.

He met Derek’s eyes for a moment, and the two exchanged a stiff nod. Before the game, Chris had approached Derek and slipped him a note. Written on it were the coordinates to a location where Chris suspected his father was hiding. He had given them to Derek knowing full well what would happen. Because Derek had explained on previous occasions, in excruciating detail, exactly what he would do to Gerard when he found him, how he would exact vengeance — eye for eye, tooth for tooth, stripe for stripe — drawing blood and exacting pain for every single injury the man had inflicted on Stiles. And then Derek would start over again from the beginning and do it twice more until the twisted old hunter was dead and dismembered. And then he'd gnaw on his bones.

Erica nudged Derek’s back sharply with the toe of her boot, and he tamped down his growing rage. He realized he’d been growling deep in his throat, and that the elderly boosters sitting on one side of him and the freshmen girls on the other were sidling away, the whites of their eyes showing in instinctive terror.

Derek changed his growl to a cough, and flashed a flirty smile at the girls and a reassuring one at the couple. The girls blushed, and the old man carefully tucked the plaid lap robe closer around his wife, but eventually they all went back to cheering for the team.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have Sherriff Stilinski in the know and on their side, Derek mused. The man was so honest it probably hurt, but he might be willing to overlook the occasional mangled corpse if it meant keeping his son safe — and punishing the people who dared to hurt him. 

Derek glanced over at the Sherriff, and paused. He was smiling proudly at his son, but for a moment his eyes held a bleak loneliness. Derek knew instinctively what he was feeling — if only his wife were here to see how their child had turned out. In the same way, Derek knew in his heart the man would never fall in love again, never marry again, never mate. Because a part of him had died with his wife and that part was only waiting to join her, each moment, each breath an agony until they could be together again forever.

That was the other thing people didn’t get about the whole mating-for-life thing, Derek thought. They thought it was some sort of mystical, supernatural bond involving teeth and blood and creepy moonlit rituals. When what it really was, was love. Just love.

The buzzer sounded, the crowd cheering wildly as the game ended in victory. The Beacon Hills team huddled together for celebratory back-slapping and a brief pep talk from their coach. 

Then Stiles was loping across the field toward Derek, his face aglow with joy.

Derek stood and felt his pack stand behind him, supporting him as they always did.

He stepped forward to meet his mate, knowing that he was was willing to face any terror on earth — even an enraged father with a gun — for the privilege of loving him and being loved in return. And that together, they were strong enough to reach any goal, defeat any enemy, meet any challenge.

After all, he was the freaking Alpha.

_The End_


End file.
